Smoke and Sheets
by I.will.be.your.Ghostkeeper
Summary: John's gone away, Irene Adler is back and Sherlock is on a case. Irene positions herself in his way... Let's move this to the bedroom, shall we? Irene/Sherlock Smut, Crime/mystery, angst, old ladies and tarts. Now with an M rating for chapter 7 and beyond.
1. IntroductionForward

**Introduction**

For the past 4 months I have been working on a fic. I had inteded it to be a oneshot, but the amount of words it had once I was finished seemed like too many for a one-shot; so I am breaking it up into chapters.

I got the a last draft-before-sending-to-the-betas nearly done a month ago and started looking for a beta reader. Since it is an Irene/Sherlock fic, I got rejection and negative responses, or no response at all. After waiting a week and getting no "yeses" I decided to ask every beta reader that had written a Sherlock fic, was okay with smut and M rated content, and who I thought I had a chance with.  
Over the course of a few weeks I got 12 people on board, by the time I had finished with my own edits and fixes, I had 9. Some messaged me and said that they were really busy with school or work, which is understandable and I appreciated the messages.

But I cannot thank my beta readers enough! They outdid themselves. I will be crediting them in each chapter, hit them up sometime and check out their works.

Over the next three days I will be editing and refining all the work that myself and my beta readers have put into it.

For now; here are three sneak peeks. I don't want to give too much away, as the main plot revolves around a triple murder case.

* * *

_Sneak Peek One:  
**She moved towards him, ignoring the blade, eyes fastened on his as she slipped under his arm, his weapon now down her back. He felt the heat swell in him as she brushed her lips to his. They both smelt of effort and steel. When she met him for another kiss she could taste the salt and cigarette. **_

* * *

_Sneak Peek Two:  
__**"Mr Holmes, my granddaughter could get herself out of anywhere with nothing but her bare hands and a toothpick," Gladys told him reproachfully. **__**"Well actually, I've saved her life at least twice." **_

_**"Yes, I'll be able to get myself out just fine." Irene responded before either of them could say anything more.**_

_**"Thank you for having me," he said to Gladys; to Irene he said, "When you go back to the flat, use my key this time." And tossed her the key.**_

_**"That was only once," she said as she caught the key. "Oh and Sherlock, dear, 'Lady K.' knows more than she lets on." **_

_**He pulled out his mobile as he walked out the door, "Lestrade, I need a warrant."**_

* * *

_Sneak Peek Three:  
**Sherlock had ****on his jacket and was soon out the door. He had a taxi take him to the police headquarters. They were all waiting. Lestrade stood behind his desk, that pensive look on his face.**_

_**"How many?" Sherlock asked.  
**_

_**"Ten. You have a plan?"  
**_

_**"If I didn't I would think of one fairly fast; safe bet to always say, yes, I do have a plan."**_

First chapter is up on the 15th, my 21st birthday. Chapters will be posted each Tuesday, at least until they are all up!


	2. The Case of The WomaLady K

Chapter One: The Case of The woma-_Lady __K_  
_  
__Disclaimer__: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so __forth__.  
__Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and __punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders __of __what __they __liked__. __Slogging __through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible__. Other Beta's have been very busy, so as they get back to me, I will add them into the acknowledgments also!  
__**The**__**Dubliner**__**: **__For __the __encouragement __and __the __conversation__. __I __don__'__t __think __this __would __have __seen __the__ '__publish__' __button __if __not __for __you__.  
__**Mei**__**Hitokiri**__**: **__For __the __tireless __work __and __quick __turn-around__  
__**xXMildredXx**__**: **__For __the __enthusiasm __and __wonderful __stories __to __remind __me __why __I __wanted __to __do __this __in __the __first __place__.  
__**thisisforyou**__**:**__For __being __the __first __to __look __at __this __story__, __as__ raw __as __it __was__. __And __for __pointing __out __the __good __bits__.  
__**Sapphire**__**Elric**__**:**__For __fixing __my __American __influenced __spelling __and __chapter __break __suggestions__.  
__**Sianco**__**: **__For __the __meticulous __work __and __effort __you __put __into __helping __me __sharpen __sentences__, __for __making __them __flow __better __and __for __fixing __my __horrendous __dialogue __punctuation__. __Also __for __giving __more__ " . " (__periods__) __a __home __and__ " , " (__commas__) __a __better __life__.  
**Kanna-chan94: **For the awesome rush job you pulled to get notes back to me!  
_

* * *

He was lounging in the flat, staring at the wall in concentration. "...Aha," he said aloud to himself. It was evident, really.

He picked his mobile up from the chesterfield arm and dialed Lestrade. "It's not the father at all; it's the sister. Look in her bottom left hand dresser drawer underneath the photo album. She's probably kept some sort of trophy; a way to remind herself that she avenged her brother's killer."

_"__How __do __you __know __that__?"_ Lestrade demanded through the speaker.

"Lestrade, I thought you would know by now. My superior intellect." He hung up on the inspector and replaced the phone in its previous spot. He pushed himself up off the sofa and strode into the kitchen.

The kettle was boiling and two tea bags were in the teapot when he heard Mrs. Hudson ascending the stairs. "In here, Mrs. Hudson!" he hollered out to her once she was on the landing.

"Oh look at this mess!" She muttered to herself as she came through the living room into the kitchen.

He figured that she was either talking about the piles of newspapers John collected for 'research,' or she was referring to the various fungi he had placed throughout the house on sections of furnishings, on the books, on the floor and on the walls. He had also placed one on the ceiling fan but he doubted she could see that one.

"Sherlock, there's a rather... Racy looking woman here to see you." Mrs. Hudson said; the usual note of concern in her voice.

"Of course. Do send her up, Mrs. Hudson, and bring us some of those raspberry tarts you have in the fridge downstairs, thank you."

"Now I know it is none of my business Sherlock but if you need to see a woman like that, well...Oh I'll just mind my own business."

"Always the best course of action, Mrs. Hudson." He affirmed.

She gave him a worried little smile, shuffled through the living room muttering. "Just look at the state of things..." before descending the wooden stairs.

As the kettle began to whistle a woman in an expensive black day dress, even more expensive yellow shoes and an equally expensive jacket came into the kitchen.

"You have to be Mr. Holmes," she said, extending her hand to him. He categorized her hand; long neat fingernails, but the paint on them, (a very pale blue) had begun to chip, probably meaning she didn't do any hard labour. She didn't type very much, nor was she often in the kitchen. Judging from the bit of nail peeking through at the cuticle the paint was at least a week old, maybe more, but not more than three weeks old. Her fingers were dainty and smooth; she used moisturizer on them regularly and didn't use the cheap stuff.

Her right hand had only one ring on it, a ruby in white gold on her second finger. The sleeves of her jacket were just a bit frayed but the rest of it was in near mint condition, meaning the coat was older but well taken care of.

"I am. Please, sit down." He told her, setting two empty teacups on the kitchen table. Even though he hadn't sat yet, she took the chair facing him. She removed her jacket and let it rest between her and the chair.

_Interesting__._

"You can call me Lady K. I'm here about-" He cut her off. "I'm fully aware what you are here about." He brought over the pot of tea, setting it down before making an unnecessary fuss over finding the sugar.

When he returned, everything was how he had left it.

"Tea?" He asked her briskly.

"Yes, please." She said, hands folded in her lap.

He poured her some tea without taking his eyes off of her.

"So I'm here because -"

He cut her off again, "Just one moment." He poured himself some tea and put a single spoonful of sugar in his cup, then a tad of milk. She didn't touch them until he offered. She took both.

Mrs. Hudson came back up with four tarts on a little plate.

Sherlock got up and went to take them off her."Thank you Mrs. Hudson." He set the plate on the table while his landlady retreated back to her rooms.

He took a sip of tea and the woma - _Lady __K_, followed suit.

"You're here about the dead call-girls, presumably overdose is the cause of death, at least that's what the morons at Scotland Yard think, but someone thinks otherwise, the only question is: whom?"

"How do you know that's why I am here?" She asked, her blue eyes sparkling. She was amused.

"Mrs. Hudson said you were _racy_, I didn't see why at first but I caught on. Your attire is completely proper but just a bit off, the shoes an inch too high and your dress has been hemmed at least once to shorten it. Say what you want about Mrs. Hudson but she knows her women for hire when she sees one, evidently her husband used to bring women of the night home. Reason enough to have him executed." He took a sip of his tea, "So, who thinks this wasn't an accident?"

"Mr Holmes, _I _think that."

"Of course, you're their... pimp? Is that the word they use these days?"

"In a manner of speaking." She replied, sipping her own tea.

"Would you like a tart?" he asked her, dismissing the answer she had given him.

"No thank you Mr. Holmes, what I would like is to talk about this case."

Sherlock frowned to himself, looked out the window and told her; "Fine, what is your theory? Not that it matters because it is most likely wrong, but...Humour me."

The wom- _Lady __K_ put her teacup down. She hadn't even blinked when he insulted her. Someone had warned her about him. He felt the prickle of surprise.

"I don't know who did it, that's why I'm coming to you." She said matter-of-factly.

"Tell me why you think they didn't overdose on the hottest street drug at the moment?"

"Because we have a strict policy against it."

"And no one has broken the rules before?"

"Of course they have, but these girls were in it for the money."

"Right. Well then." He got up, left his tea where it was and put his jacket on.

"Where are you going?" The wo- _Lady K_ asked.

"To look at the bodies. Where else?"

* * *

_Last __Authors __Note__: __Through out __the __story __two __names __from __the __original __Arthur __Conan __Doyle __stories __will __come __up__; __the __reader __who __first __identifies __both __those __names __and __which __story __(or __stories__) __they __are __from__, __will __get __a __character__ (__an __OC__) __of __their __making put __in __the __next __fic __I __write__, "__The __Baby__'__s __Breath __Case__". That story will feature John and Sherlock, but for now I don't have plans for that one being a slash story. _

Who is Lady K? Is she actually Irene Adler, or is she a new player on the board? Find out next Tuesday!


	3. The Return of Irene Adler

Chapter Two: The Return of Irene Adler

_Disclaimer__: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so __forth__.  
__Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and __punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders __of __what __they __liked__. __Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible__. Other Beta's have been very busy, so as they get back to me, I will add them into the acknowledgments also!  
__**The**__**Dubliner**__**: **__For __the __encouragement __and __the __conversation__. __I __don__'__t __think __this __would __have __seen __the__ '__publish__' __button __if __not __for __you__.  
__**Mei**__**Hitokiri**__**: **__For __the __tireless __work __and __quick __turn-around__  
__**xXMildredXx**__**: **__For __the __enthusiasm __and __wonderful __stories __to __remind __me __why __I __wanted __to __do __this __in __the __first __place__.  
__**thisisforyou**__**:**__For __being __the __first __to __look __at __this __story__, __as__ raw __as __it __was__. __And __for __pointing __out __the __good __bits__.  
__**Sapphire**__**Elric**__**:**__For __fixing __my __American __influenced __spelling __and __chapter __break __suggestions__.  
__**Sianco**__**: **__For __the __meticulous __work __and __effort __you __put __into __helping __me __sharpen __sentences__, __for __making __them __flow __better __and __for __fixing __my __horrendous __dialogue __punctuation__.__Also __for __giving __more__ " . " (__periods__) __a __home __and__ " , " (__commas__) __a __better __life__.  
**Kanna-chan94: **For the awesome rush job you pulled to get notes back to me!  
**LosGatos: **For your hard work and conversation!  
_

* * *

Lady K masked her reaction at his abrupt decision to go see the bodies, took a last sip of her own tea and got up.

Sherlock put on his jacket and wrapped his scarf neatly around his neck. No good being cold. He waited for her to slip on her jacket before sweeping out the front door and hailing a cab.

"We're going to the morgue," He told the cabbie who had answered his summons. As usual, when you tell taxi drivers you're going to the morgue, they give you a funny look as though you're going to become a dead body. "Oh for heaven's sake," he muttered. It was the hundred and seventieth time he'd gotten that look.

The cab ride there was silent. Lady K spent the time texting on her mobile and Sherlock spent the time watching her.

They got to the morgue with the usual ease, Sherlock taking the lead. Molly looked up from graphs and sheets of information; the smile she swiftly brought to her face when she saw Sherlock was quickly dropped when she saw Lady K.

"Oh, hullo." She said, looking quickly back to her work than once more at her visitors.

"We're here to see the three call girls." Sherlock informed her.

"Wha-Oh, of course." She went over to the crypt and pulled three of the drawers open. Three individual women, covered in individual sheets, in individual drawers. Molly pulled each sheet down to the top of their collar bones. Sherlock looked closely at their hair, faces, lips, arms, hands and feet. Bruising had formed on all three women's arms, two had injection sites on their right arms and one on her left.

"Molly, was there anything strange about their deaths?" Sherlock asked.

"No, nothing that was out of the ordinary for an overdose."

He frowned. It was too clean, too perfect. Not one of the victims had any alien substances on them, no tissue that didn't belong to them-nothing to say they had been in places where prostitutes would get the drug from. Even if they had gotten it from an upscale party or dealer there would be _something. _A trace of the drug on their clothes or skin, under their nails."I need to see their personal belongings."

He left the drawers and Lady K. behind, following Molly over to a storage locker. She brought out three resealable bins. She looked to Sherlock, "Take their effects out and lay them on one of the tables, please, Molly. You're wearing new shoes I see, have a date tonight?" He asked, peering briefly down at the blue patent leather pumps as she put the bins on the table.

Molly blushed and focused on the task. "No, no, just out with the girls," she told him.

He frowned and looked through their clothing. Corresponding to Lady K.'s clothes they had elegant, expensive attire that had been made more revealing. Speaking of Lady K... She was trying to ignore the bodies of the dead women, choosing to watch Sherlock.

"Have you found anything?" She asked.

"No." He said as he inspected one of the girls' purses. Nothing there either.

"I need their personal effects." The mortician put the belongings in three cardboard boxes, one for each victim and placed them, neatly stacked, into Sherlock's arms.

"Have a good date tonight." He commented as he and Lady K. departed.

He waved down a cab and juggled the boxes into one arm. He opened the door for Lady K.

"I will contact you as soon as the case is solved." He informed her.

She got in the car, exposing her upper thigh even more. Sherlock noticed she did nothing to fix that. As the door shut he heard her say, "Thank you, Mr Holmes."

He nodded to her and waved down his own cab.

He returned to his home with no incident. He had the driver help him take the boxes upstairs, which meant the poor man had to carry them all in.

He gave the man an extra £5 for the help. Once the cabbie had left, he spread the contents of Maria Fisher's (a.k.a. victim number one) box on the kitchen table and catalogued everything. Sherlock read over Maria Fisher's file real quick, made sure he knew the core details and stepped into his mind palace.

_He was walking down a hallway, gold paper on the walls, thick carpeting underneath and golden letters on the door suggested it was a fancy hotel. The window outside was a bit too light to be 01:00, he adjusted so that it was darker. He placed himself into one of the rooms. Maria Fisher, her body in the bathroom, still dressed in her matching bra and knicker lingerie set, nylons laying forgotten in the corner, her grey office skirt (shortened) and violet silk blouse (tear in the left seam) floating in the air. (It was his mind palace, he could make clothing fly if he wanted). He swiped a pair violet heels away after turning them over in his hands. She had on a pair of new silver earrings that matched a silver bracelet in the bathroom. He filed them away and moved onto the purse. He arranged the contents on a grid in front of him, nude lipstick with a crack in the case, eye pencil, hairbrush, mobile, ten condoms, a brown, well used, leather wallet. He pushed everything but the wallet to the back, so that he could make a second grid with the what was in the wallet. The usual identification cards her arranged on the top row, three £20 notes, made up the second and the bottom was two business cards and one scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. _

If Mrs Hudson had walked into the room, she would have seen Sherlock touching, sniffing, feeling and tasting all the items. His mind palace was a tool, by going into it to catalogue, he would have that information stored in there until he saw fit to delete it.

He replaced those things back in the box they had been taken from before pulling out the box marked with Arden Wolff's (a.k.a. victim number two) name. He read through Arden Wolff's file and entered his mind palace once more.

_This time he was in an apartment, mid-afternoon daylight peeking in through slits in the curtains. There was no body though, none of the evidence had been on her when she had been killed. The notes from the file painted enough of a picture that Sherlock could work. She had lots of black attire, undergarments, skirts of all kinds, tops, hosiery, shoes. Most of the shoes were more worn than the clothing. He felt himself feeling the plastic bags that had the contents of Arden Wolff's handbag in them in the waking world, and brought up another grid. One mobile, top left corner, two cartons of cigarettes, each getting a separate spot on the grid, one hair tie, a tube of nearly empty sheer lip gloss, one keyring with ten keys on it, and her well cared for black wallet. He pulled another grid up beside the purse. He used three rows of three once more._

_Drivers license beside four £50 notes beside ten business cards. He examined each business card individually before mentally stacking them into one slot. Each one had either a note, a date, or a number on the back of it. He stepped out of the mind palace._

So, Arden Wolff was much more methodical and organized than Maria Fisher had been. Two very different people under the employ of Lady K. What would Zoe Malone (a.k.a. victim number three) be like? He returned Ms Wolff's things to their box and took out Zoe's, read over the file and returned to his work.

_He walked down a gravel road to get to the lake. He was out in the middle of the country, mid morning time. He walked around the lake until he came across her body. She was still fully dressed, her body decomposing already. She was wearing a Yale blue, jersey evening dress. The dress was riding up her one leg enough for it to be evident that she wore no knickers, and a hole in the dress showed her teal bra. One of her shoes (Prussian blue) lay a few paces away. Her handbag had been recovered from the lack. The killer had apparently tried to get rid of it. He watched as it bubbled up from the bottom of the lake and floated over to him. He flicked the ivory handbag above his head and let it sit there. He snapped his fingers and the items inside were tipped out, a jumble in the air and soggy. He pinched his fingers together and dragged each item into it's one spot on the grid. One cosmetic mirror, three different tubes of rouge, one lip gloss, two eye pencils, one makeup with a the remnants of blush on it. She didn't have a wallet but there was a napkin with a number jotted down on it, four £10 notes and a £20 note. He frowned and turned around. He went into the mind palace's hallway, all dark wood and dark blue, he put a chair in and sat down, and traced his index finger down the rows of case files until he found the current ones. He brought out the grids that had the wallet contents for Maria Fisher, Zoe Malone and Arden Wolff. There. The same phone number appeared on Zoe Malone's Napkin, Arden Wolff's business card and Maria Fisher's scrape of paper. He returned to Baker street and..._

Put Ms Malone's things back into the original box they had been hours had elapsed and he was in want of a cigarette but instead threw on a nicotine patch. The women shared two things in common.

_-All work for Lady K.  
-All have the same phone number, which is written in the same hand with the same pen._

It wasn't a lot to go on, but for Sherlock it was plenty.

He dialed the number but it went to an automatic voice-mail system, with no name attached to it. He frowned and looked at the napkin, then the scrap of paper, and finally the business card. There was a date on it. _January 22nd. _He phoned Lady K.

"Can you tell me where Arden Wolff went on the 22nd of January?"

"_Of course, let me look it up in the planner. Here it is. She went to the Bankside Gallery."_

"Excellent, can you tell me who she was meeting with?"

"_Unfortunately I can't. The client asked to remain anonymous."_

"As I suspected." He hung up. A quick search online for the Bankside Gallery revealed that it

was located in South London, on Hopton street. He hollered down to Mrs. Hudson.

"Call me a taxi, would you, Mrs. Hudson?"

"Sherlock! There's no need to shout! I'm right here!" She said, coming into the living room from the hallway.

"All the same Mrs. Hudson?" He asked, lowering his voice.

She shook her head but called him one nonetheless.

The cab took him to the Bankside Gallery, where they had the 74th Annual Wood Engravers Exhibit. He went through the exhibit, and stopped at a rather elaborate piece. It was meant to be stopped at -three benches with plush seating had been set up side by side. He sat on each bench in turn, looked at the walls, under the benches, and finally he looked at the floor space between where the benches had been placed, and where the sculpture called home. Before he could find anything however, a pair of silver shoes came into his view. He looked up the legs, took in the well fitted pale blue dress, lambswool jacket, black muff and suitcase at her side.

"I thought you were supposed to be dead."

"Apparently someone else had a better idea in mind."

"This seems like a rather public place to be meeting."

"That's why you're going to get a cab and take us back to Baker Street."

"Oh, I am?" He asked, in truth, he was pleased to see her. Though he couldn't say why.

He heard the smile in the voice. "Oh yes Mr Holmes, Oh yes."

He got up off the floor before offering his arm to Irene Adler. It was just like her to show up as though out of nowhere.

* * *

She's back! I know it isn't Tuesday yet (at least not in my time zone) but I start my new job very early tomorrow morning, and wanted to get this up tonight since I am not sure I will have time to do so tomorrow! Enjoy my lovies, look for my an "All My Dreams & All the Lights" update this week, as well as a Johnlock one shot, Smoke and Sheets will return next Tuesday, see the sneak peak below:

_**She buttoned her coat up as she pushed past him, "I'm coming with you. I won't get in the way. She retorted, leaving no room for argument. She has something to do with this case;I just can't put my finger on what. He sighed to himself. Maybe having her along will make her give away the answer. **_


	4. An Adventure In The Detective's Pocket

__Chapter Three: An Adventure In The Detective's Pocket.

_Disclaimer__: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so __forth__.  
__Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and __punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders __of __what __they __liked__. __Slogging __through __this__on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible__. Other Beta's have been very busy, so as they get back to me, I will add them into the acknowledgments also!  
__**The**__**Dubliner**__**: **__For __the __encouragement __and __the __conversation__. __I __don__'__t __think __this __would __have __seen __the__ '__publish__' __button __if __not __for __you__.  
__**Mei**__**Hitokiri**__**: **__For __the __tireless __work __and __quick __turn-around__  
__**xXMildredXx**__**: **__For __the __enthusiasm __and __wonderful __stories __to __remind __me __why __I __wanted __to __do __this __in __the __first __place__.  
__**thisisforyou**__**:**__For __being __the __first __to __look __at __this __story__, __as__ raw __as __it __was__. __And __for __pointing __out __the __good __bits__.  
__**Sapphire**__**Elric**__**:**__For __fixing __my __American __influenced __spelling __and __chapter __break __suggestions__.  
__**Sianco**__**: **__For __the __meticulous __work __and __effort __you __put __into __helping __me __sharpen __sentences__, __for __making __them __flow __better __and __for __fixing __my __horrendous __dialogue __punctuation__. __Also __for__giving __more__ " . " (__periods__) __a __home __and__ " , " (__commas__) __a __better __life__.  
**Kanna-chan94: **For the awesome rush job you pulled to get notes back to me!_

* * *

Chapter Three: The Adventure of the Detective's Pocket

The entire ride back to Baker Street, not a word was spoken between them. It was a pleasant silence and smugness hung heavily in the air. He didn't spare glances. What he had found appealing about her in the first place was still there, layered under her masks. Always fast to pick up on what was going on, to piece the jigsaws together. And she knew people and how to get under their skin, to get into their skin even, and find out what they wanted most. Then she would give it to them. He didn't think she had figured him out yet. They walked up the stairs, her shoes making soft tapping sounds as she followed behind him.

Sherlock found himself wishing Mrs. Hudson had decided to do a tiny bit of tidying; the newspapers of John's really did clutter the place up. "Collecting articles?" She asked, skirting around one of the piles. He glared at the newspapers. "No, those are John's."

"Experimenting then?" She asked, taking note of the eukaryotic organisms littered around the house as she undid the buttons of her jacket.

"I like to continuously have at least one experiment going on, it keeps boredom at bay for a time." He replied, clearing off one of the chairs at the table in the living room for himself. He sat down and watched her, trying to get a read off her. It was easier since... ah... since Karachi. He found himself wondering the very simple questions of Why. Why had she returned to London? What was worth the risk of being caught again? Why now? Of course the answers wouldn't be as simple.

She put the same amount of concentration into observing his flat as he was putting into observing her. He noticed the very small change in the way she held herself, while she noticed that in a year things hadn't changed much, all the furniture in the same spots, nothing taken out, a few things added to the walls though. He saw the outline of a new camera phone in her pocket as she noticed the full ashtray.

She walked over to the table and cleared the papers (onto the floor they went) from the chair opposite him before sitting down. He was aware that her movements- especially the small slight ones- the way her fingers brushed the chair back as she pulled it out, how her eyes glanced down at the table, how her- brought back memories.

"So," he said as she settled, "You've returned to London."

"Darling, let's not be obvious."

He smirked at her and studied her further; if she wanted to talk about not being obvious...

"You've come here for a reason- of course not something you are going to tell me- which begs the question, why? Why return, seek me out and then not tell me why you risked your life to come back? It isn't money; you have enough of that in Australia. You're curious how I know you were in Australia, the answer is simple- a slight inflection of your R's. Nothing too apparent unless one has a well-tuned ear for accents, which I do. If it isn't money it's..." He paused and slowly his smirk turned into his 'oh Sherlock you daft thing' look. He became very still as he continued.

"Of course. It's personal, very personal. Something you wouldn't let anyone see you vulnerable about except for someone who has; the only one capable of determining your heart without you having to tell them in words." Sherlock said, gently. Well, gently for Sherlock's standards. He looked away momentarily. Why was she here?

Irene's lips had turned into a straight line. She didn't respond. The man across from her was infuriating, fascinating, and worst of all; correct.

"I need your connections." She admitted, though coming from her it sounded nothing like admittance.

"I only have a few that could help you, unless you've gotten personal about the type of Argentinian rug you have and want to know if it's a fake or not."

"I need you to talk to your brother," she pulled a business card out of her pocket, "about getting me in here." She handed the card over to him.

**Barfield Home,  
**422 Pinefell Avenue, Belgravia London, SW1W 6JE,  
020 1154 038426

He blinked his gaze back to her, rubbed the card with his thumb and took his time putting it all together.

_**Irene back in London→ **__**3 dead call girls  
**_ l  
_**John gone at the same time  
**_ l  
_**Retirement home business card**__**→ Reason Irene came back  
**_ l  
_** Something personal  
**_ l  
_** Someone in Barfield that she cares about.  
**_ l  
_** Person who raised her **_ → #_mother#__→ {Father} - *Grandmother*  
__ #too conventional# _ {_impossible} *****__**yes***_

"You want me to arrange for you to visit your ailing grandmother? You could just go in there on your own." He told her, dismissing the problem. She may be in danger, but did everyone have to make such a big deal out of danger? He and John spent most of their lives in danger and didn't run for help... unless they really had to, or John convinced Sherlock it would be for the best...

She got that slightly pouty 'oh don't be difficult or I'll spank you' look. It was the look that had made her so popular among the elite and discreet.

"Fine." He said and pocketed the card. "Lend me your phone," he commanded, putting his hand out, demanding silently and expecting her compliance.

She passed it over. The irony.

He dialed Mycroft and rolled his eyes when his brothers stuffy, official voice snarled a lazy; "I'm busy Sherlock," and hung up. He redialed.

"It's of utmost importance. I need you to get me a private interview with Irene Adler's grandmother."

"That is 'of the utmost importance'?" Mycroft said sceptically. "I don't think you'll get from her what you would from Ms Adler."

Sherlock ignored that and continued on, "I want it set up at her comfort for tomorrow evening, before 7 would be best," he instructed.

"Why should I do this?"

"Because I need a favor. In return I'll take the next five cases Lestrade throws my way, no matter how mundane they happen to be."

Mycroft barely hesitated. "Done."

"Text me with the details." Sherlock wrapped up, hit the red 'end call' phone button and slid the phone across the table back to Irene.

"It will be done. Now," he said, getting up. "If you'll excuse me, I have a case to complete."

Irene got up as well, "I'll come with you."

He didn't stop moving towards the door. "No, you won't. It's best if you stay here." He made it to the top of the stairs before she caught up to him.

"How is it better? It's not going to be safe. You've told your brother, who's to stop someone from coming here?" she demanded, hurrying down the stairs in his wake. He turned to her sharply and corrected her.

"I did not tell him you were in town at all. I merely said I needed an interview with your grandmother. It is best. You'll get in the way."

She buttoned her coat up as she pushed past him, "I'm coming with you. I won't get in the way". She retorted, leaving no room for argument. _She has something to do with this case;I just can't put my finger on what. _He sighed to himself. _Maybe having her along will make her give away the answer. _She hastily raised her scarves about her face, keeping her face well hidden and grabbing one of Mrs Hudson's umbrella's as they left. She put it up against the sleet as soon as she stepped foot out the door and angled it so that only he could see her face.

"Where are we going?"

He huffed with annoyance at her, "If you insist on joining me, I insist that you keep silent as we go about business." She kept her thoughts and questions to herself for the next half an hour, and he wondered if he had been unfair when he had insisted she be silent. They were currently in the cab he had gotten that would take them to Arden Wolff's home address, which Lady K had texted to him earlier upon his request.

When they got to her flat he broke the CAUTION: CRIME SCENE tape that had been run across her door and picked the lock. The apartment that had once been Arden Wolff's was neat. There were dishes in the sink and laundry laying on the bathroom floor and some in the hamper. It was clear that everything did have a place and (for the most part) was in that place. Nothing had been cleaned up, which was helpful since the police had been stomping throughout the place already, destroying, carrying in and out evidence that they would find trivial but that he found crucial to a swift case closed. Irene followed him about at first, but she soon started looking out the windows, in the drawers, through the mail, at Ms Wolff's poor choice in DVD collection. He _could _help but glance over to her every few moments. He chose not to. She was relaxed, as though this was the most ordinary thing in the world.  
_~She isn't an ordinary type of person~  
She also isn't extraordinary, she's just Irene. She's posh clothes and rouge, and body language and sex.  
~Doesn't that make her extraordinary?~_

He was spared further conversation with himself when she asked;

"Is there anything I should be looking for?"

He looked up from the bookshelf he had been inspecting. "Yes, see if she had any drug paraphernalia in the house, check in all the usual places, under the bed, in the medicine cabinet, in the fridge, dresser drawers, shoe boxes stashed in unlikely places and the like."

He went back to what he was doing and found the book he was looking for. Ms Wolff had a timetable just like everyone else. He flipped through it to see if she had made any mention of clients, but all it seemed to be was about her banking, reminders to renew her driving license, a note about the horse races and relatives' birthdays. He cursed silently and put the book in his pocket for later. Irene returned to the living room once more and informed him that she had found nothing. At least she had tried to be helpful.

"Excellent, what I expected, really. Since we can't get into the other crime scenes as easily, give the Inspector a call," he instructed her.

"Will you at least give me his number?" she asked, fingers poised over the touch keypad on her camera-phone. "Left pocket," he told her, now looking at the photos she had up on the wall.

_She would never have brought a client here, too personal_.

Irene went to reach into his left jacket pocket- "No no, trousers." He told her, scanning the photos first for anyone that he recognized, anyone that could be the link. Nothing. He took a careful look at Arden's body language in each photo, was she happy or just pretending? Irene slowly, and he imagined attempting seductively, put her hand in his left trouser pocket and smoothly pulled out his phone. Her attempt wasn't a total failure.

She searched his contacts for Lestrade and hit "call".

"Hullo- Yes you can, I'm calling for Mr Holmes- he needs you to secure and allow him access to two crime scenes- I'm his assistant while Doctor Watson is away- yes that's correct, two crime scenes- the ones involving dead call girls - umm, just the most recent ones I believe-"

She pulled the mouthpiece of the phone away from her mouth and asked Sherlock. "What are the addresses?"

"Right pocket- jacket this time." He told her, now making careful note of the locations where the photographs had been taken. She reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She returned to the phone conversation and read out the addresses.

She hung up and slipped both the paper and the phone into his left jacket pocket. "He said the soonest we can get in is tomorrow and that we'll have to be fast about it." She told him, dipping her voice into a feminine and breathless baritone.

Sherlock straightened his collar, "I've gotten all I need from here, let's not dally about."

Sherlock insisted that they walk back. As they had exited Ms Wolff's apartment he told Irene, " I need to think. Sitting in some stuffy cab with faux leather seating is not the environment to think in. I hope you wore your good shoes."

"Good shoes are the only kind I own." She smiled and put up her umbrella.

* * *

****Things are starting pick up! What do you think of Irene being back, and her motivations for doing so? While I didn't get the next installment of "All My Dreams & All the Lights," I did post up the oneshot I mentioned last week, titled "The John Watson File,"

Here is a sneak peek for next Tuesday's chapter!

**The offending garment was pressed between them and was indeed, getting Sherlock's shirt wet. Irene threw her jacket atop his (which was laying on the sofa). She gave him a sultry look that named every one of his desires, sexual and otherwise. **


	5. The Evidence Suggests It Was Dinner

Chapter Four: The Evidence Suggests It Was Dinner

_A/N: An early update!_

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__.  
__Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders __of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou, __Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._ **

* * *

She kept up with his varying paces. He would speed up and begin talking soundlessly to himself before suddenly slowing while looking up at the London rooftops through the sleet. His facial expressions would change into a furrowed brow or a sudden smirk, then there would be a stretch of time that his face would remain tranquil and near unreadable. He didn't bother with an umbrella, instead he let the sleet stick to his jacket, melt in his hair and run down his face. By the time they arrived back at Baker Street it was nearly 1 a.m. Sherlock had gone where his feet led him and taken no direct routes. He double checked his watch.

"If you're hungry, there's a small diner still open a few blocks down. I'm afraid I don't have anything in the house with John being away."

Irene peered at him from under the umbrella. "Do they have something warm to eat?"

"So long as the stoves and ovens haven't broken down," he replied, chuckling to himself as they continued past 221B. Despite being as intelligent as she was, she still asked redundant questions, it was both annoying and endearing. And only endearing because it made her sound a slight bit innocent.

They reached the diner, a place Sherlock and John frequented. It was named 'Milo's'. The ovens and stoves were working, so Irene ordered a hot roast beef sandwich with soup. Sherlock asked if they were serving breakfast yet and if he could have eggs.

"Well... ummm.. Let me check," the young waitress who was working the graveyard shift said, scooting back behind the counter to ask the cook.

She came back and informed them that for them, breakfast was all day. "Tyler says he sees you and that other fella in here all the time, and that he likes to see regulars, be it out of convenience or not. How do you want your eggs?"

"Tell, Tyler I thank him and that I'll have Eggs Benedict please, but could I get the hollandaise sauce on the side?"

"Sure thing." She turned to Irene, "Anything to drink for you both?" She glanced back at Sherlock to include him in the question.

"Yes, a coffee for me." Irene replied.

"A coffee for me as well." Sherlock told her, looking around the diner. It was empty of any other patrons. Irene watched the younger woman as she went to get their coffees. She pursed her lips delicately and a small smile tugged at the corners. The young woman brought the coffees over and set them down on the table before she told them that if they needed anything to give a holler.

Sherlock watched Irene, he didn't need to look at the retreating girl to know what was going on for Irene. He didn't comment on it either. He moved his attention to the empty street and fixed his coffee with a bit of sugar. He wondered...

"Did you know them?" he asked her, still looking out onto the street.

"Did I know who?" she asked, sounding irritated.

"The case, the victims, did you know them?" He turned to look at her now. Her hand twitched around the coffee mug.

"I knew them indirectly."

"Through Lady K?"

"Lady wh- oh, of course. No, I knew her indirectly also."

He allowed himself a heavy exhale, she wasn't being very forthcoming. No matter, he would figure it out soon enough, he knew; he could feel it in the air, in his fingertips, the tingling down his back: he was close to breaking the case. He brushed his gaze over the woman across from him. "You've changed." He told her.

"I've been gone for some time. You've changed also."

"Yes."

There was a brief pause, then she said, "In a way, you broke my heart."

"I- yes, well." He couldn't deny that they're last public scene in London had been him tearing her heart(and her scheme) asunder when she thought she had won the game. Like he said to her then; she'd stopped playing the game and started playing on sentiment.

~You mean like what you're coming dangerously close to?~

"Had it been.." He grimaced; a heart is not physically broken by feeling, it can stop, or a heart attack can occur. But to break a heart...

"...broken before then?" he asked. It had been an attempt to ignore the question he had asked himself, but somehow it seemed to only give that thought more to feed from..

She took the time to think about it. "Not in that kind of way." She smiled then, as though the whole thing was a delight. Sherlock joined in her mirth as their food arrived.

"Sherlock," she said as she wrapped her scarf around her neck just before exiting the diner. She left the umbrella shut; it was past 2.a.m., not many would be out in this weather. Besides, it was only a short walk to 221B.

"Mhhmm?" He held the door open for her. They walked a few paces, she stopped him, reached for his hand and pulled herself nearer to him. She felt the warmth of him through his woolen coat, smelt his smell that was;

_**Sherlock**_  
l  
_** faint lemon→ his soap**_  
l  
_** chemicals→ experiments**_  
l  
_** cigarette smoke clinging to his scarf**_  
l  
_** Something she could only describe as 'him'**_

She brought her lips to his ear and whispered, "We just had dinner."

Clipping the words sharply for emphasis, he whispered back. "That was nothing like dinner."

She moved so that she could look at him while remaining close."How was that not dinner?" She asked with a smirk.

"Because," he disentangled their bodies and kept walking, though he did not let go of her hand, "It is the second hour of Saturday. Friday has passed; therefore, we cannot have had dinner, we had breakfast."

Irene chuckled her tinkling laugh as they walked back into the flat and upstairs, careful not to wake Mrs. Hudson.

"Where shall I sleep?" she inquired as they took off their wet jackets and scarves.

"Wherever you want," was Sherlock's nonchalant reply. He refrained from rolling his eyes. She was being obvious again.

"Are you going to sleep at all tonight?"

When he made no response, she closed took his arm and wrapped it around her waist as she began kissing him. He returned the kiss reluctantly.

He stopped her. It was uncomfortable.

"Your coat is wet."

The offending garment was pressed between them and was indeed, getting Sherlock's shirt wet. Irene threw her jacket atop his (which was laying on the sofa). She gave him a sultry look that named every one of his desires, sexual and otherwise.

He didn't immediately scoop her up to satisfy his desire. He picked their jackets up of the sofa and put them over chairs to dry.

She kicked off her shoes and started walking to his bedroom, brushing past him as she went. He reached out for her shoulder but ended up touching her lower back instead. She stopped and he smiled. There.

_~What are you doing? This isn't **you.** You don't even know how to-~_

He silenced the thought, whatever he thought he didn't know how to do would remain unknown. Besides, just because one thinks they don't know how to do something, doesn't mean it's true.

His unhelpful thoughts dismissed, he pressed his hand into her back and watched for the reaction. Her back was where she kept all her tension, her stress, her unreleased emotion. His hand being there was as deadly as pulling a trigger. When she turned to face him, the way their lips touched wasn't firecrackers and parades, wasn't the signature fire and control that Irene had become famous for. It was the slow, sumptuous kind of touch to melt chocolate. It was her letting all the masks fall.  
Just because she was a dominatrix meant she was all masks. She really was a commanding, fierce woman, just not all the time.

The pair took their time getting to his bedroom, kissing and touching as they went. They took each other to the bed, his shirt wrinkling underneath the pressure of her body. Her hips steady, breathing quickening and pulse accelerating.

"I can't. The case, I-I can't be distracted," he told her once settling on the right words to use.

She kissed him roughly; as though she didn't want to heed his words. She pinned him with her gaze before rolling off of him with her feet on the floor.

"Alright, plenty of time before John gets back." She laughed as she unzipped her dress, let it fall and toed over to the door to hang it up before she took a silk sleeping shirt out of her suitcase. She came back over to the bed as she put it on.

"Goodnight, Ms Adler," Sherlock murmured as she slipped beside him under the blankets.

"Goodnight, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock didn't fall asleep soon after. He wasn't sure if he was going to sleep even. He could be up and working on the case, he could be working on his mushroom experiment, he could be honing a skill, but he wasn't. He was laying in bed, something he normally only did when he was sleeping. The weight of another body on his bed was strange. The sound of her deep sleep breathing was unfamiliar. He sat up and looked out the window. Illuminated by streetlamps on his street, he could see the snow as some of it turned to rain before hitting the ground. He thought back to when they had first met, the number of question marks she had inspired, the way they had played each other, and how in the end, she had proved to him that love was a dangerous disadvantage. Irene did not love him, she had said as much then. It was no matter; he didn't love her either. Love was not something they had. No, what they did have though, was admiration. He did not know if Irene was staying in London for good, and if she were, what did it mean for their mutual admiration?

* * *

**Until next week my lovies! Hope you enjoyed it and I would love to hear (well, I guess read) your thoughts on it! What kind of soap do you think Sherlock would use?**

**A kind reader suggested that I ask for everyones emails in case of accidental account deletion/hacking, if anyone is interested in sending me a private message with their email address in it, I of course will not object. Don't feel obligated to though! I could always make a new account!  
**

**_Sneak Peek; _**

** Four Minutes  
**_Sherlock kept going, accelerating once more. He took a sharp left, Irene on his heels. They sprinted through another alley and made a quick break as the traffic light they wanted to stay red turned green._

_g in front of the oncoming vehicles. Horns blared and beeped at the two figures as they bounded toward a fence, Irene shouting, "I can't jump that in these shoes!"_


	6. The Adventure on the Streets

Chapter Five: The Adventure on the Streets

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__._

_Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders __of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou, __Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._**

* * *

Lestrade eyed Irene before lifting the caution tape for them to duck under.

"Pretend she's not here," Sherlock told him, giving a pointed look to Irene and then to Lestrade. Irene had her scarf obscuring most of her face, but Sherlock didn't think taking the risk of someone identifying her was going to give them any insight into what had happened.  
Sergeant Sally Donovan sniffed disdainfully. She did not like having outsiders on crime scenes or near evidence or showing off and making snide comments the whole time.

Lestrade gave Sherlock one of the 'whatever you say...' looks that he had mastered by using on Sherlock.

They were standing near a small lake, where Zoe Malone's body had been found. Lestrade had called them in around 12p.m. Apparently that was the earliest the man could get them onto a crime scene.

"I'd tell you there's nothing to see but you'll just call me an idiot. Our boys combed the place." Lestrade complained.

The better of the two detectives gave him an annoyed look, a look he had perfected by using on just about everybody.

"Spare us," Sherlock muttered and began surveying the grass with his eyes.

He ignored the facts that even Lestrade's 'boys' would have picked up on, it had rained nearly every day for the past three weeks, there were five sets of footprints leading to where the body had been, and someone had a dog that frequently marked this as his territory.

Sherlock bent to the ground and sniffed; the smell of burnt plastic. "Sergeant Donovan, would you collect the bits of grass here, I've found traces of the drug." He told the continuously annoyed looking Sally, "Make sure you get a 3 centimetre radius from the diameter, and make the bag as airtight as possible."

"An' how'm I supposed to make the bag airtight, exactly?"

"A straw works wonders."

Irene smirked as Sergeant Donovan scowled and pulled out an evidence bag.

Sherlock observed the scene for another half an hour before announcing to Lestrade that it was time to move onto the next crime scene. He shouted now over to Irene who was talking to one of the locals that lived just a block away and had come down to see 'what was happening now.' She patted the elderly man on the arm and thanked him before she strutted over to the car.

Sherlock commented as they were about to get into the car, "You may want to change the police tape on that last crime scene."  
Lestrade didn't even blink. Instead he made a note of it in his mobile. They took the police car over to The Somerset, an upscale luxury hotel that was privately owned.

As they walked down the gold papered walls towards room number 1044 Irene mused so only Sherlock could hear how she had met clients here.

Even without the police tape across the door, as soon as one entered room 1044 one knew it was a crime scene. Sherlock went straight to the bathroom. The report he had gotten from Molly had told him everything about the layout of the scene and that Maria Fisher's body had been found in the bathroom.

Sherlock Holmes pulled back the expensive glass shower door, he scanned over the surface of the deep jacuzzi bathtub, looked in all the drains and in the water reservoir of the toilet. Lastly Sherlock looked under the sink, and that was where he found the intravenous needle.

"So.. We have the drug, the women and the needle that couriered the drug into their systems," he turned to Irene and Lestrade who were both leaning in the doorway.

"Evidence bag," Sherlock demanded. Lestrade pulled one out of his pants pocket and tossed it over. Sherlock carefully put the needle inside the plastic and pocketed it.

Sherlock's phone began to ring shrilly and he reached for it in his pants pocket, he frowned when it wasn't there and felt his other pockets, finding it in the left jacket pocket where Irene had put it.

The caller I.D. claimed it was his brother, and indeed it was. He answered the phone with a question, "When are you picking us up?"

"There will be a car outside your flat in five minutes, and let's not keep it waiting, little brother."

The line went silent. Sherlock made a sour face and put the phone back in the proper pocket.

"Lestrade, we need to run off, important things to do." Sherlock informed the Inspector. He stood and voiced somewhat smugly,

"Assistant! We've got other business to attend to, remind Sergeant Donovan to have the grass sent over to the flat," as he passed under the Police tape.

_**Five Minutes**_

"Where are we running off to now?" Irene asked as she caught up to him. She kept pace with him easily. "We're taking a shortcut home. Did you remind Donovan?"

He increased his speed and started to turn his walk into a light jog down the finely carpeted halls.

"Yes, I don't think she enjoyed it as much as I did. A shortcut?" She sounded confused.

"Yes! A shortcut, keep up now!" He said as they dashed through the emergency exit door, setting off alarms in their wake.

They took the stairs all the way down, Irene considered losing her heels before realizing she'd have to race across the wintry ground in her stockings. They left The Somerset and found themselves in a back-alley.

_**Four Minutes**_

Sherlock kept going, accelerating once more. He took a sharp left, Irene on his heels. They sprinted through another alley and made a quick break as the traffic light they wanted to stay red turned green.

Sherlock quickly calculated the risk of injury before scooting in front of the oncoming vehicles. Horns blared and beeped at the two figures as they bounded toward a fence, Irene shouting, "I can't jump that in these shoes!"

**_Three Minutes_**

"Then lose them!" He shouted over his shoulder to her as he leapt over the barrier between him and the yard that was beside Baker Street.

Irene paused before she got too close to the fence and took her shoes off quickly and efficiently. She chucked her shoes over both fences, one of them narrowly missing Sherlock's head before clattering to the pavement on Baker Street.  
She silently cursed as her stockings got wet, droplets of water flying from them as she flew through the mucky yard and up over the fence.

Sherlock could see the black car sitting out front of his flat as he was picking Irene's shoes up off the ground. He tore down his street.

_**Two Minutes**_

He reached the car as Anthea stepped out. He glanced back at Irene, who was swiftly re-wrapping her scarf about her lower face and pulling up the deep hood of her coat as she ran.

_**One Minute**_

Anthea stepped aside for Sherlock to get in. By the time he had clambered in Irene was opening the door opposite him. Sherlock rolled down the window. "Anthea, I trust this is all being done under the radar."

She offered him a sly smile as the car began moving. "Of course, Mr Homes."

Sherlock swore, rolled the window up and pinched the bridge of his nose. He rapped on the tinted window separating their driver from his passengers. "How many minutes before we arrive?" he asked once the driver had rolled the large window down just enough to hear and be heard.

"It should take fifteen minutes, traffic being good."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, closing his eyes.

"Don't worry about it, she's one of mine." Irene said a bit breathlessly beside him once the dividing window had been rolled up the inches it had been opened. He heard the 'click' of her seat belt being done up.

He pulled his own across his lap and fitted the metal ends together. "Anthea is one of yours?"

"Has been for a while." Irene smiled, remembering a few days she had spent with the woman who was connected to nothing but Mycroft.

"Even if she had recognized me, she'd have to keep it to herself, unless she wants the world to know she has a father/daughter complex when it comes to your elder brother."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose just a fraction. "It makes sense," he admitted.

"Here." He handed her shoes back to her.

"Aah, thank you." She hiked her skirt up a bit and pulled her stockings down her leg one at a time; pulling them off and putting them in her coat pocket.

"You should know-" Irene said as she slipped her left shoe on, "-that my grandmother-" right shoe on, "-raised me."

"I'm fully aware."

"Really, how is that?" She asked as she fixed her skirt.

"I looked into your background when we first crossed paths. It became apparent that your mother could not have raised you due to how very conventional she is. She sent you to St. Rose." He began to laugh, "I can only imagine you at St. Rose, you must have caused a few uproars."

"Often," she agreed.

"I assume I am correct when I say your grandmother is very wealthy?"

"Not that it is any of your business; but yes."

He pondered this for a moment. "Well, I look forward to meeting her."

"And I expect she shall enjoy meeting you." Irene said just as the car pulled to a stop out front of Barfield Home.

The lobby they walked into was narrow but exquisitely furnished. Underneath the smell of freshly baked pie was the crisp clean feel that all medical facilities have. The woman working at the reception desk smiled pleasantly at them. Sherlock made a small file for her and stored it in his hard drive as a temporary document. She had pale blonde hair that was neatly styled down her back, crow's feet that could still be reversed if she wanted them to be, and eyes of slate and asphalt. Her navy blue blazer was the same well-tailored make as her tan skirt. He noticed the photo pinned to her computer monitor, it was of her three children now as teenagers.

"How can I help you?" she asked as Sherlock ran his finger along the lacquered wood of her desk.

"I have a meeting arranged by Mycroft Holmes."

Her slate and asphalt eyes glimmered. "Oh of course... here." She handed him an I.D. swipe card.

"Go 'round through there." She indicated a heavy door to her left.

He strode over to the door, turned the handle before running the magnetic strip downwards through the scanner, waited for the small light to blink green, and pushed open the door.

Once he and Irene were in the stairwell she spoke up. "That was a bit easier than I thought."

"Mycroft _is_ well connected. What floor is she on?"

"The seventh," she replied as she began walking up the stairs. When they reached the seventh floor landing, Sherlock used the swipe card to open the door once more.

He followed Irene down the cream walls with evenly spaced wood doors, observing the names as he went.  
When they came to room number 1726, with the name "Gladys Adler" Irene stopped.

After what seemed more than enough time to open a door, Sherlock looked each way down the hall, trying to see if there was something causing the delay. "Is there something you are waiting for?" he asked.

"It's been a very long time," she started. Sherlock could figure out the rest of it.

"I'm sure she'll be happy to see you," he attempted to reassure her.

He didn't think it worked, but she knocked on the door before twisting the golden knob.

* * *

**Well my dears, here is an update! What do you think so far? What do you think about Anthea being one of Irene's? How do you think the meeting with Irene's grandmother is going to go? How do you think the case is developing?**

No sneak peek this week because I will be posting the next chapter tonight! I just can't resist; it is my favorite chapter.


	7. The Women Who Taught The Woman

Chapter Six: The Woman who taught The Woman.

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__._

_Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders__of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou,__Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._**

* * *

Gladys Adler's rooms were spacious. A full sitting room with plenty of space and large windows overlooking a park, bookshelves filled and a few small ornaments here and there.

The lady reading by the window looked very much like Irene, though 55 years her senior. She had the same basic bone structure, same eyes, though Gladys' hair had once been red instead of Irene's dark brown.

She did not notice them until Irene walked over to her, knelt and placed her hand on the elder lady's elbow. Even still, she jumped a bit when Irene spoke, "Glady? It's Irene."

The woman's face lit up. "Of course it is! Where were you yesterday?"

Sherlock watched Irene quickly recover and process a lie, "I was working."

"Oh yes... That's right."

Sherlock began looking at the books on the shelf. They were histories in pristine condition. He estimated that there were around three hundred books on the shelves while Irene sat on the window seat with her grandmother.

"Did Samantha teach you how to be with a woman yet?"

"Yes Glady, a few decades past now," Irene said patiently, still crouching.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I forgot." Gladys looked at Irene apologetically.

Irene smiled as she sat beside her grandmother. "It's okay. How have you been?"

"I've been good dear." She assured before turning to look at Sherlock. "Who is the man you've brought with you? He's not a client is he?"

Sherlock walked over, "I am not a client. My name is Sherlock Holmes and it is a pleasure to meet you." He extended his hand to shake hers.

She took it in a firm grasp and turned to Irene. "He's got lovely hands, dear."

Sherlock saw a distinct change in Irene; she was softer with her grandmother. Despite the circumstances, she was the most relaxed he had ever seen her.

"Did you hear about my three girls?" The older woman asked.

"I did. Bella contacted me and I directed her to Mr Holmes."

"It was you? Of course it was you! Why on earth did you think it was a good idea to li-Wait, well no not really. All the information I had on you said you work alone," Sherlock defended.

"And I do. 'Lady K.' Bella as we know her, works for my grandmother," Irene smirked. "I thought you would have figured this all out by now."

"Well I have been just a little bit _busy_," he retorted.

She smiled. "Well, now you have it."

"Have what?"

"The answer."

"Yes, and now it makes a bit more sense why you're back in England," he replied.

She dipped her head and offered no objection.

"I don't know if I like him," Gladys said, looking sternly at Sherlock.

"Not many people know, it's alright." Sherlock explained.

"Always," Gladys said as she sat back on her window seat, "remember what I told you: men-" and here she gave Sherlock a meaningful look, "-don't want cheap, they only think they want cheap."

"That's it!" Sherlock hissed.

Irene thought about it for a moment before asking, "How?"

"The men, the man, Lady K.-Bella, whatever the blazes her name is, was right, they are not suicides or overdoses, it' is now, almost without a doubt, murder!"

Gladys frowned and whispered to Irene, "I don't think one should be that happy about murder."

"We're not really ones to talk Glady," Irene replied then turned to Sherlock. "I'm still not sure - oh! the killer, he wants something they're not giving him!"

"Yes, and that something will lead us to the killer. Will you be fine to get yourself out of here with this?" He passed her the key-card.

"Mr Holmes, my granddaughter could get herself out of anywhere with nothing but her bare hands and a toothpick," Gladys told him reproachfully.

"Well actually, I've saved her life at least twice."

"Yes, I'll be able to get myself out just fine." Irene responded before either of them could say anything more.

"Thank you for having me," he said to Gladys; to Irene he said, "When you go back to the flat, use my key this time." And tossed her the key.

"That was only once," she said as she caught the key. "Oh and Sherlock, dear, 'Lady K.' knows more than she lets on."

He pulled out his mobile as he walked out the door, "Lestrade, I need a warrant."

Sherlock entered the luxuriously done up room, warrant tucked into his inner jacket pocket. "Lady K," he addressed the figure sitting on the uncomfortable but expensive chair.

"Good news, Mr Holmes?"

"In a manner of speaking. I need their list of clients."

Her brows puckered together. "Mr Holmes, I thought I made it clear to you that I was not able to do that. It is not a matter of if I want to or not. There is no list, the clients wish to remain anonymous and so they do, we have taken every measure to ensure their continued anonymity. We give them options for meeting places, they choose one and a time, the woman goes to meet them and that is that."

"But it isn't just that, people talk, they always talk. There's no way Zoe or Arden or Maria or any of the other women under your employ didn't recognize who they were sleeping with. But also, you have phone records Bella, yes I know your real name; here's a hint, do not trust the Woman, she plays the game better than most. You went to her for help and she directed you to me. In seeking my help you intentionally left out important information so that you could say you did not break the confidence of these Johns. And I'm going to give you a way out of that. I have more important things to do than work out amateurs who think they know the game."

He pulled the warrant out with a flourish.

"What's that?" Lady K. asked.

"A warrant for all the information you have on your clients."

She sighed as she realized there was no way around it now.

"Fine, follow me then." She rose from the chair and took him into a room that was a bit less showy than the previous one. The room was small with a glass desk and chair being the only furniture, a laptop, printer and telephone the only other things in the room.

She went over to the laptop and clicked around. The printer started whirring and buzzing and spitting out pages with specially formed dribbles of ink to make numbers and letters, letters that made words and names. She scooped up the papers and handed them over.

"That's the most frequent clients they had in the past three months."

He scanned over the list.

"Thank you," he said, folding up the list and exiting.

He took a taxi home and had to keep telling the driver to hurry. He opened the door with his spare key. He took the stairs two at a time and was about to go over to his laptop when he saw Irene sitting on the floor n front of the fire place with the book her grandmother had given her. He suddenly thought of beautiful. Not a beautiful object or thing. The intangible beauty. It wasn't how the winter sunset was coming through the South-West window and washing her in deep golden red, it wasn't the sound of the pages as she turned them, her eyes feasting upon the words, nor was it the way her body was in a state of alert relaxation. He studied her a moment longer and wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Irene Adler that got to him. It was similar to how John affected him. He didn't want John to ever stop being there. Even if John just kept on existing that would be enough. He had found a friend in ex-military doctor John Watson, something he had let go the idea of having when he was seven years old.

_You don't have time for this._ He told himself once more. The truth, and he knew it was the truth, was that he didn't want to have time for it.

Sherlock completed the journey over to the laptop and brought up the phone number tracing software John had gotten them so that they didn't need to rely on Scotland Yard just to find out who had called them.

He started putting the unknown numbers in and was at least coming up with names. He was jotting them down when he heard the unmistakable creak of the third stair followed by the scent of burning tobacco.

"Irene. Get in the bedroom and be quiet no matter what you hear," Sherlock instructed, looking around the room for signs of her belongings, anything that would show she had been there.

Nothing. It was all in the bedroom. Irene got to the bedroom and shut the door just in time.

Mycroft appeared in the doorway, "You've been a bit busy."

"Yes, and I still am." Sherlock replied pointedly.

"I need you to stop."

Sherlock paused to look at his brother, "You want me to stop?" He asked incredulously.

"Yes. I want you to stop. Now."

"You and I both know the probability of that is very low."

Mycroft sighed. "Have I ever asked you for a favour before?"

Sherlock glared at his brother, "Yes."

"Well let's say that I haven't, and I won't mention that you've been running around the city with Irene Adler. Here's a hint: never corner a woman."

Sherlock hissed at his own blunder; he'd gotten over-confident and fucked up with Lady K.

"Give the numbers to me," Mycroft said, hand out expectantly. Sherlock made a disgusted sound and passed them over. Mycroft coldly tore the papers up and hid them in his pocket.

"Anything else?" Sherlock asked as he inspected one of the fungi on the windowsill, making a show of not looking or being interested in what his brother did.

"Tell Ms Adler I send my regards." He smiled, and when Mycroft smiled it looked as though he had never properly learnt how to do it.

He pulled out his cigarette case and plucked one out before handing it over to Sherlock.  
Sherlock put the cigarette to his mouth and lit it as his brother turned around and walked down the stairs. Sherlock heard him bid Mrs Hudson a good day. It didn't matter that Mycroft had destroyed the papers; Sherlock had already seen all he needed to.

"Well, that was unexpected." Irene said as she came out of the bedroom.

"I hope you didn't intend on staying in London." He allowed himself a moment to think on what John would have to say about him smoking.

"You're not going to drop the case, are you?"

He exhaled evenly. "You already know the answer."

"To be honest I didn't think it likely I would be able to stay, though I did hope to," she sat across from where he was standing, watching the smoke curl up to join the smoky aura around him.

Sherlock dialed one of the numbers he had traced, and then another, and the one after that, all the way down the list he had memorized in his head when Lady K. had first handed it over to him. He told them all the same thing. "This is Sherlock Holmes, I know about the murders, the forced injections full of a fatal amount of narcotics. Turn yourself into Scotland Yard by 7p.m. tonight or I will announce to the papers that you're the killer."

Most of the recipients of this message met it with outrage or threats of their own. He told them once more to be there before hanging up.

Next he called Lestrade and told him to be ready in a few hours.

He let Irene speak to Lady K about everything; by the end of the conversation Lady K was now only Bella, the position she had held being passed onto someone else.

"I'm thinking Russia," Irene said to Sherlock after she got off the phone. He had picked up an épée and was practicing his strikes.

"I don't need to know where you are going."

"But I want you to." She laughed and continued reading the book her grandmother had given her. Sherlock checked his footing and took a practice lunge.

"Do you want a partner?" she asked him after a length of time.

"Swords are by the bookcase," he said. She padded over and picked up a foil to use against his épée. She attacked him directly, automatically bringing her sword up and the other hand tucked behind her body. They went back and forth for half an hour, working up a sweat and trying to judge each other's next strike to allow themselves time to dance out of the way. Sherlock started pushing a bit harder, driving Irene into the hallway and up the second flight of stairs towards John's room.

She parried his next blow and sent him back down the stairs with a few quick lunges downward.

He pushed back with ferocity and a grin. He was forcing her gradually up the stairs. But she kept sending him back down. Their eyes always darting back to the others, tension tight between them but not uncomfortable. They had reached the top of the second flight and turned the fight around; now Irene had her back to the stairs and was bearing down on him, pressing him into the door leading to John's room. He saw the opening as she was aiming for his kidney. He brought his épée up to her neck, resting against her dark hair, right next to her carotid artery. She moved towards him, ignoring the blade, eyes fastened on his as she slipped under his arm, his weapon now down her back. He felt the heat swell in him as she brushed her lips to his. They both smelt of effort and steel. When she met him for another kiss she could taste the salt and cigarette.

"Not yet," he whispered as he spun her around and walked back downstairs. As he had done so many times before, he pushed his physical desire down and shoved his emotional desires into the back of his mind.

They leaned the swords against the one armchair, Sherlock broke open a history book John had bought him for the holidays, _The Tragedy of the Italia With the Rescuers to the Red Tent_, by Giudici and Davide.

Irene picked up from where she had left off before Mycroft had shown up.

"That is a history." Sherlock commented, looking at the book she held. He had been trying to figure it out, the binding was older, but the text was handwritten, and the binding wasn't that old.

"My grandmother gave it to me just before I left. Shr used them as journals, she would find a history she liked and replace the pages, then write her own history."

Sherlock smiled, rewriting history.

He put the book down and rose from the chair. Irene didn't need to ask where he was going. "Can I use your shower?"

Sherlock looked amused. "You would have anyway, why ask?"

"I thought it would be polite."

"Mmm yes, I suppose it is."

* * *

**Please do let me know what you think! This is my favorite chapter, and I hope one of yours also!**

Sneak Peek:

_**"I can place you at each crime scene, your car drives by that lake every weekend when you go to visit your uncle. He gave you that tie, didn't he? Don't bother with an answer because we already know I'm right. You took Zoe Malone there thinking no one would find the body. You left Maria Fisher in the hotel room because, well, you're unimaginative and watch too much television." **_

_****_Sneak Peak Two;

**He left the police to deal with it now. His job was done. He walked out to a blustery four a.m. London.  
As he walked back to his home he was not surprised to get a call from Mycroft.  
**

**"What have you done?" Were the words of greeting. Mycroft did not bellow or roar, he didn't even sound surprised. He sounded disappointed.  
**

**"My job." **


	8. The Deadly Minister

Chapter Seven: The Deadly Minister

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__._

_Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders__of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou,__Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._**

* * *

Sherlock had on his jacket and soon was out the door. He had a taxi take him to the police headquarters. They were all waiting. Lestrade stood behind his desk, that pensive look on his face.

"How many?" Sherlock asked.

"Ten. You have a plan?"

"If I didn't I would think of one fairly fast; safe bet to always say; Yes. I do have a plan."

"Yeah, sure." Anderson scoffed.

"Lestrade, tell him to shut up would you?" Lestrade gave them each an unimpressed look.

The interview rooms had been set up. Suspects had been subjected to a preliminary interview by the police. Lestrade asked Sherlock as the consulting detective went in for the first interview, "How do you know the actual killer showed up?"

"Because the killer has something to hide, they couldn't risk not showing up."

"But then all these people have something to hide." Lestrade expressed.

"Lucky day for you isn't it?"

"Four of them lawyered up," Lestrade warned.

"Probably best for them, though I do hate lawyers. They so often think their clients tell them everything and that they're right."

Lestrade looked to Sally Donovan; could she believe that sentence, coming from him, a man who thought he was right 24/7?

Armed with a background check Lestrade had supplied him with; Sherlock spoke with Charles Stonearch first.  
He was guilty of car theft, but had only needed to pay a fine after a few evenings in a prison cell. Not likely to be the killer, but Sherlock needed to do a bit of stageing.

Charles Stonearch had gotten his lawyer to come in, a squat man with large eyes in a cheap suit and an appreciation for fine foods judging by the stains on his jacket lapels.

Sherlock remained standing for the interview.

"You got a call last night instructing you to turn yourself in for murdering three women." Sherlock studied Charles Stonearch, he was a neat man, with neat clothes that had been tailored. His white-blond hair had been cut so that it added to his overall features; it wasn't an entity of its own, it was a part of a whole.

"Why did you come in?" Sherlock asked.

"I was told to, like you said- this guy says he'll tell the tabloids it was me if I didn't-I want to prove I'm innocent."

"And yet you brought a lawyer," Sherlock pointed out.

At being mentioned, the lawyer spoke for the first time. "Mr Stonearch has done nothing wrong; if that is how you are going to treat a man who has come to you for help after being falsely accused and threatened over the phone-" The rest of the interview went much like that. Which was fine, because at the end of it, he released Charles Stonearch and made sure all the other potential killers could hear him leaving in a huff.

Next he spoke with Nadine Richards, a woman in the military whose name had been on the list of 'anonymous' clients. She was more frightened than anything, of course she didn't want it to get out that she went to see prostitutes. "Why would that woman need to go see prostitutes?" Lestrade wondered aloud as she left.

"Because the women won't get attached, it's just business, it's fornication and nothing more," Sherlock answered.

After her he saw Pattar Tasovar, a fashion designer who had recently hit it big. He wasn't the type to ruin his career over murder, but he also wasn't the type to ruin his caree getting caught hiring for sex.  
Before he went in to speak with William Marble he asked Lestrade who had called their lawyer first, and who had followed his example, in precise order please.

"Danielle Vottwoth, Charles Stonearch, George Karrier and then Elaine Forest."

He spoke with William Marble at length, who soon admitted to seeing a woman, but insisted it wasn't like that. She was a friend he had been helping out. "Why not just give her the money?"

"She insisted on something, so that she wasn't taking from me, she didn't want to just take the money. So I got her to give me a neck massage. I know, I know! It sounds like the excuse you give to your wife if you're cheating on her or something, but I don't have a wife, though not for lack of trying... there's this girl I really like but... I don't know she's- ah, sorry," he looked embarrassed that he had gotten off track.

"Anyways, so she's been giving me neck massages and I give her money for them, I mean, I pay for a few hours of... Of... Well, other things but only get the neck massages. It works out for both of us."

Later that week William Marble told the story on his radio show, ending it with; "It was just a massage, why should I be ashamed of that.

In fact, why should any of us be ashamed even if it isn't just a massage?"

Sherlock spoke with George Karrier next, who was not impressed with the situation and muttered to his lawyer about how he was never going to hire a woman to do something he could convince one of the girls who worked at his company to do.

Danielle Vottworth had something to hide, but it wasn't murder. She also had her planner, which she kept more meticulously than John kept his bureau drawers. She had been out of the country on a business trip for the past three months, it turned out. Sherlock pointed out that she shouldn't sleep with her lawyer.

Elaine Forest was next, she had been the last to call her lawyer and she had not needed to. She could confirm her alibi on her own with her pay stubs.

He interviewed Oliver Brigs next, who owned Transport for London. He did not have a lawyer; he felt having one would be an admission of guilt. His advisers had advised against him not contacting his lawyer; he told them he had nothing to hide but that he preferred this did not get out to the press.

Next was Zachery Lee, a government Cabinet member. Sherlock knew this had to be the man. He had no lawyer but had the most to lose, and his background check revealed that he was a fine art lover and had a gallery room at the Bankside Gallery where he undoubtedly had met Arden Wolff. Sherlock and Irene had stood in that room. It also explained why Mycroft had wanted the case dropped. He went through the show of interviewing Andrew Catten, and hours into the night after Sherlock had arrived at the station, he emerged to tell Lestrade that it was time to send them all home, except for Zachery Lee; he was their man.

"Prove it," Zachery Lee said when they presented him with the charges. Sherlock did, and he did it well.

"I can place you at each crime scene, your car drives by that lake every weekend when you go to visit your uncle. He gave you that tie, didn't he? Don't bother with an answer because we already know I'm right. You took Zoe Malone there thinking no one would find the body. You left Maria Fisher in the hotel room because, well, you're unimaginative and watch too much television."

"This is all just speculation," Zachery Lee sneered.

"You met these ladies at a charity event the Bankside gallery was hosting just a few weeks ago. I saw the pamphlets left over when I stopped there. You grew fond of Arden Wolff, killing her in her apartment suggests something personal. One night after a meeting you followed her home. Later, in your fondness you told her a secret, something you didn't want getting out, something-" He pulled Arden Wolff's timetable out of his jacket-"like stealing money from the government-" He opened to the page that held the evidence.

_Zlee takes winnings from Big B._

"She disguised it to look as though she had been keeping track of the races, yet there are no other mentions of horse races in this book or anything in her apartment to show she had an interest in it. She's talking about people, as soon as I saw your name I pieced it together. Big B is 'Big Boss', the government that you are a part of."

"You have yet to show me any solid proof!" Zachery Lee said. He was a broken record wasn't he?

Sherlock turned to Lestrade, "Three murders proof enough?"

"You have no proof I killed them!" Zachery Lee shouted.

"Yes we do, I have placed you at every crime scene and made your motivations clear. I am sure a look into your financial records will reveal the stolen money somewhere. Do you think you wouldn't be convicted by a judge or a jury of your peers?" Sherlock asked coldly.

When Zachery Lee found himself unable to respond, Sherlock continued in the same cold tone, "As we've been talking, the police have been going through your house."

Lestrade dialed the squad he had sent as if on cue and put it on speaker. "You find anything?" He barked.

The officer on lead kept his response to the point, voice filtered but there was no mistaking his words. "We got 'im. Syringes, the drug, he even had each victim's rough schedule figured out."

Sherlock Holmes had been watching Zachery Lee's face the entire exchange. He saw something there that he knew too well. Pleasure that someone had finally caught on.

"Check deeper into his man's past Lestrade, I reckon this man is no stranger to killing."

He left the police to deal with it now. His job was done. He walked out to a blustery four a.m. London.

As he walked back to his home he was not surprised to get a call from Mycroft.

"What have you done?" Were the words of greeting. Mycroft did not bellow or roar, he didn't even sound surprised. He sounded disappointed.

"My job."

"You know this will cost Irene Adler, I cannot make idle threats."

A lie came easily to his mind and just as easily off his tongue. "Irene Adler is already gone. She was gone as soon as that little chat you had with me was finished." He made sure to work in annoyance, disgust and condescension into his tone. It was almost a reflex to lie. Some situations demand lying to survive.

_~Those with such attachments don't survive~_

"I'll see you soon Mycroft. I still owe you those five cases." Sherlock said and hung up.

* * *

_Sneak Peek One:_

**_"Let's move this to the bedroom, shall we?" She suggested.  
As they quickly made their way to the more appropriate room, it was difficult to tell who was in_**_ control._

* * *

_Authors Note: So very sorry for the delay my dears! I have been working a great deal and wanted to give this a good read over before posting; I am very happy I did. As some have been asking "what happened in Karachi?" I will be posting a follow-up fic shortly after this one is complete._

Don't forget about my character giveaway! Just find the three names a use in the stories (they've all now been mentioned a few times) and I'll put a character that you create into my upcoming case!fic


	9. The Adventure in Sherlock's Bedroom

Chapter Eight: The Adventure in Sherlock's Bedroom.

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__._

_Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders__of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou,__Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._**

* * *

**__**I am so very sorry my loves, I have been working everyday for the past three weeks, had a skin reaction to stress, and have been working on my class, plus trying to find a new house. With many apologies and my love, here's chapter 8.

* * *

It was just another two hours before dawn when he arrived back home. Irene was sitting on _his_ sofa, had borrowed _his_ robe and was reading_ his_ paper. "They left out about the Minister," she commented as he walked in. Someone had worked fast to get that into the papers for this morning.

"Not a surprising outcome considering how much work was gone through to cover it up in the first place."

She put the paper down on the floor and got up, went to him and put her hand out for his jacket.

"Any more cases?" She asked as he passed it to her, giving her a quizzical look.

"Not unless you've sent some more my way."

She stared at him a moment longer before replying. "No."

He sat down on the sofa and made his hands into a steeple, resting them on his chin. Irene sat beside him.

"Would you like to have dinner?" She asked, resting her hand on his left thigh.

He closed his eyes. "I'm not hungry."

"Sherlock," she warned.

"Why did you come to London?"

Her apprehension made its mark on her body. She got more controlling when she was uncomfortable. It reminded him of the last time she had been in London, right when he had unlocked the phone.

"To make sure my grandmother was going to be okay."

"Oh please, we both know you could easily have had someone do that for you, without you stepping foot in the country."

"I thought it was best if I did it myself."

He just looked at her, long lashes framing his famous eyes.

"If I told you it was because I wanted to see London again, would you believe me?"

"Probably not."

"I needed to make sure she was safe. After Lady K called me I knew it wouldn't be a matter of if the killer found out who was running the operation, but a matter of when. I couldn't risk this getting swept under the rug. I needed you."

The double meaning wasn't lost on Sherlock.

He kept his silence and temporary blindness. Forty minutes went by before Irene removed her hand from his thigh and placed it on the back of his neck, gently massaging. He relaxed into it and found his thoughts slipping away. Her touch was feathery but firm, skin soft as she stroked his delicate scalp.  
He opened his eyes and turned his head sharply towards her. Blue eyes slicing through him. Her hand didn't stop.

"This isn't going to be a repeat of Karachi," he informed her. A smile splayed itself across her face.

"I don't think we could do a repeat of that if we tried. The city of lights, as they call it, was an extraordinary experience. Even for me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Irene moved her hand slowly down his neck, then to his shoulder and down his arm, massaging as she went.

"Who said I wanted to do a repeat?" He asked.

She leaned in closer to him and touched her lips to his cheek. "I have a new theory I am devising. Think of it as an experiment of sorts."

He raised his eyebrow at her a fraction. He wasn't sure if he was amused that she was trying to experiment on him, or if it was because she had used the word 'experiment' and tried to make it sound alluring. She moved her mouth to his.

He didn't move or try to stop her. Instead he let her slide onto his lap. She had put perfume on while he was out, he noted. She leaned back and watched him as she trailed freshly French manicured fingernails down his cheek. She let her fingers fall to collarbone before returning to the nape of his neck once more where she curled them in his thick, dark hair. He felt his body tense up as she made rough pulls through it.

She kissed him again, harder, his own lips answering with an unhurried force. Let me savor thought. His hands found her waist and pulled her closer. The neck of the robe had started to loosen and come down one of her shoulders; he moaned as the rest of his body tried to relax.  
She undid the sash of the robe one-handed and let it fall to the floor, the cool air of the room raising gooseflesh along her arms, her back, her chest. With her one hand still tangled in his hair she knelt his head towards her chest while the left hand cupped her breast, "suck." She told him in a dangerous whisper. He teased the soft flesh with his tongue, the tip of her mammary gland already hardening from her arousal and the cold. He made it as vertical as his external organ was. He paused and looked up at her, then she undid the top two buttons of his shirt before deciding to worry about his belt first.

He felt out of his depth. It wasn't the onslaught of sensations he was feeling. Sensation and senses were what he relied on to solve cases. The smell of her was arousing, the unique scent of her when she was turned on was fascinating.

She bent her front over him. She's remembered I have shoes on, he thought, though he knew it had been intentional, something to get him going even more. She had his first shoe and sock off and had quickly moved to the second. She turned to look at him.

"Let's move this to the bedroom, shall we?" She suggested.

As they quickly made their way to the more appropriate room, it was difficult to tell who was in control.

Sherlock figured it to be both of them. It wasn't about the power games anymore, now it was something different.

"Clothes. Off. Now," she ordered.

He left his clothing in a neat pile at the foot of the bed. He got on top of her, a bit awkwardly, before she had enough of that and turned him onto his back. With protection in mind, he fished around in the bedside table drawer until he found what he was looking for. She waited impatiently, trailing her tongue down his inner thigh until he was ready. She savored the moment before letting him in, and after she had, she savored that moment as well. She reached for his hand and laced her fingers through his; she wanted to keep their bodies close.

She felt the heat of his body next to hers and felt the smooth skin of his chest. He raked his nails down her back. She tasted his skin, traced the scar just beneath his left shoulder that had to be from a touched the soft flesh of her thighs and felt the power surging in her muscles.

"Sherlock." She tasted his name, tested it out, not unlike she had done by herself late at night. This was better. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to bowl her over so that he would have the advantage. She let him, her legs dangling over the side.

After only a few moments, she breathed,"The desk." He looked quickly over his shoulder and saw what she meant.

He picked her up a bit ungracefully and sat her on the desk, both of them pushing papers, case files, and his cased arachnid collection to the back of the desk. The arachnids were the deadly ones that had been discovered in the world, all dozen of them, they were not alive, of course. Sherlock forgot about the spiders as Irene's hands did some wonderful things before pulling him closer with her legs around his hips, nearly causing him to topple over her. He steadied himself against the wall with his one arm as he kissed her, her hips rising up to meet his urgently.**  
**

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**The next and final chapter will be posted tomorrow. I have yet to complete the one-shot about what happened in Karachi, which I am really tempted to title "What Happened in Karachi," but it will be coming to you soon!**


	10. Epilogue

Chapter Eight: The Adventure in Sherlock's Bedroom.

Disclaimer_: __You __know __the __drill__; __I__'__m __not __making __monetary __profit __off __of __this__, __so __on __and __so__forth__._

_Reviews __and __PMs __are __always __welcomed __and __given __a __good __home__._

_Acknowledgments__: __I __have __to __thank __all __of __the __betas __for __helping __me __with __grammar __and__punctuation__, __brit__-__picking__, __suggestions __and __reminders__of __what __they __liked__.__Slogging__through __this __on __my __own __would __have __been __impossible_**_. __The__Dubliner, __Mei__Hitokiri, __xXMildredXx, __thisisforyou,__Sapphire__Elric, __Sianco, __Kanna-chan94, and LosGatos._**

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Epilogue

The final chapter of this part of the tale. Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers, alerters, favoriters and readers who have been reading and who will read. Please but your hand together for an appearance by our beloved Doctor John Watson.

* * *

"I will miss London," Irene said as she packed her suitcase so that everything fit just perfectly.

"Where did you decide to go?" Sherlock asked mildly as he buttoned up his shirt. The sun had risen behind the winter clouds, making them look faintly pink behind the grey.

_Maybe I don't mind knowing where she is going._

"Ulyanovsk- Russia, I have an old friend who now teaches at the State University there, she'll be able to show me around and tell me where to find a good place to live."

They both let the silence stretch out, Sherlock watching her pack while she was avoiding his gaze, though she did not avoid looking at him.

"I don't know the answer, you know." He told her as she did up her suitcase.

"I know," she replied as he stood and led the way into living room.

He stood in the doorway of living room as he told her. "You saved mine and John's life when you called Moriarty that day."

They descended the stairs.

"And you returned the favor in Karachi."She said, looking at him against the black of the door to 221B.

"Does that mean we're... even or something?" He asked.

"We don't play in odds and evens, we play to win."

"So who won?"

She flashed him one of her wickedest of looks, "I think that is yet to be seen." She said, before she got into the car and was carried off; to the airport or the train station he didn't know.

He was writing a song on his violin when he heard the clang of the door as John came in. It had to be John, Mrs Hudson never clanged the door. He paused, mid-composition. His best and only friend walked up the stairs and set his suitcase down.

"Well that was a positively horrid trip! Remind me to decline the next Doctors' Convention I get an invite to!"  
John announced as he flopped down on the sofa. Sherlock smiled; of course John had found it dreadful.

"How was your week?" John asked, still recovering on the sofa.

Sherlock raised the bow once more, uttered, "It was just fine," and resumed playing, looking out at the street as a new kind of smile flirting with his mouth.

* * *

The next morning Sherlock emerged from his room, where he had been going over a case file, to find John sitting on the sofa, book in one hand, newspaper in the other.

"Sherlock," John said as Sherlock sat down at the table and opened John's computer.

"Don't worry, I won't be that long, I just have to look up how to disembowel someone."

"I really hope you're not planning on practicing anytime soon; Anyways, that's not what I was going to ask," John held up a note that had been sitting on the coffee table, "I was going to ask; What happened in Karachi?"

Sherlock feigned confusion, "What on earth are you talking about?"

"There's a note here. Not your handwriting." John said, waving the note to and fro.

Sherlock walked over and took it out of John's hand.

**_I think we beat Karachi. _**

Sherlock folded the paper up and tucked it into his pocket.

"I have no idea," he said, going back over the kitchen table.

John watched his flatmate for a moment, picked up his book, took a sip of tea, and muttered, "Liar," with a smirk on his face.

**The End. **


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